


I Think, Therefore I Think I Am

by callmeessex



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Haircuts, Hank Anderson & Connor Friendship, M/M, hank is a good friend, ship if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 11:01:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16016555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmeessex/pseuds/callmeessex
Summary: Connor doesn’t feel like a person. Not yet.





	I Think, Therefore I Think I Am

**Author's Note:**

> hey so this is my first completed work to the site. hope you like it. this was high-key inspired by some personal angst i'm going through atm, so please bear with me. comments are always appreciated <3 -aengus

Connor doesn’t feel like a person. Not yet.

His life up until incredibly recently had been dictated by programing. He lived mission to mission, concerning himself only with the completion if his current objective. His conscience was entirely ones and zeros. He was not a person.

He’s supposed to be a person now, though. Markus had won-- they all did-- and androids were granted their freedom. Other androids took to this freedom like wildfire; flocks of new painters and musicians, mathematicians and inventors, and lovers and believers taking to the world with a confidence the likes of which no one had ever seen before. 

Those… those are people. Why don’t I feel like them?

Hank had done his best to help so far. He’d opened up his house to him, saying what’s mine is yours and gifting him the spare room. 

A bedroom in a house. People have those things.

He’d had even gone out of his way to buy him some new clothes. Connor had found that he had a proclivity for simple clothes- his wardrobe consisted almost entirely of plain black t-shirts and jeans. He liked his clothes. He was more content in them than the starchy uniform CyberLife had provided him. 

Hank had also been the one to introduce him to music. Granted, the only music Hank owned were some Jazz vinyls and the entire Knights of the Black Death discography, but music was more prevalent in his life than before. Conner even began to turn on the radio of his own volition now, something that Hank has called him out on the first time he noticed it. Connor had told him that he hated empty silence. Hank told him that it was perfectly normal.

He was so, so thankful for Hank. He makes the process infinitely easier.

Connor lifts his head and locks eyes with his reflection, hands tightening their grip on the sink’s edges. He can see his LED spinning a persistent yellow. Every android Connor knew had a different opinion on them-- their LEDs. Markus told him that he removed his out of necessity; had he been under circumstances, he said he might not have removed it. It makes him feel closer to his people. North told him that she hated the LED, and that is was the mark of a slave. She had removed her LED.

The Tracis, however, had kept theirs. When Connor asked, they said it made communication easier. They viewed their LEDs as a gift. They said that they never had to guess what the other was thinking. They were communicating easily, and they were happy. Connor admired the Tracis-- they seemed more human than most humans he had met.

I do not feel human.

Connor takes in a breath he doesn’t need and straightens, placing his hands on his head. He watches as his face contorts in the mirror. His eyebrows are drawn close together, his eyes narrowed and his mouth frowning. It doesn’t look right. Connor forces his face to relax. Better, I suppose, but still too cold. Connor forces a smile. It doesn’t feel right. It looks even worse.

Conner scoffs in frustration and lest the smile drop. He runs his hands over his head. The hair between his fingers is coarse and stiff. He ruffles it, and the strands fly in every which direction. It looks terrible. Connor hates his hair. He tries and fails to style it back into place; it feels like plastic in his hands. It clearly wasn’t designed to be messed with. Connor really, really hates his hair.

There’s an electric razor under the sink...

Before he loses his courage, Conner ducks down and fumbles in the cabinet beneath the sink. He feels around with his hand, making contact with smooth plastic and pulling it out. The razor is black and sleek, and looks unsurprisingly unused. He can’t imagine the last time Hank used it. He looks back at his own reflection. Fuck it. Connor turns on the razor, and it buzzes heavily in his hand. He drags the razor across the crown of his head.

Locks of black hair fall onto his shoulders and the tile around his feet. Connor reaches up to feel the top of his head, dragging his fingertips across the line of fuzz left behind by the razor. Connor huffs what he thinks is a breathy laugh, a smile flashing quickly across his face. This feels right. He takes the razor and shaves another line next to the first, and then another, and another after that. Hair falls to the floor in dark clumps, and Connor feels more weight being lifted off his chest with every lock that hits the ground.

Connor turns off the razor, sets it on the counter, and runs his hands over his buzzed head. He smiles, and it looks natural on his face.

“I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen you smile like that before, kid.”

Connor jumps and turns to the voice in the doorway, to see Hank. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, and there’s a look in his eyes that Connor can’t quite place. He still hasn’t gotten the best understanding of the intricacies of human emotion.

“I…,” Connor begins, but his voice is trapped in his throat. Hank tilts his head ever so slightly, urging him to continue. Connor sighs, attempting to gather words and form something coherent.

“I think that I like this more… than my old hair. It felt too… too structured. Too artificial,” He murmured. Before he can process it, Hank is grinning and ruffling what little hair he has on his head.

“It looks good, Connor. It suits you.”

Thank God for Hank.

For another brief moment, Connor smiles again-- but only briefly.  
“Hank…” Connor begins again, pausing to look at his reflection in the mirror again. He can’t help the thought that, that looks almost like an actual person. I look almost human. There’s something off about it still…

“Hank, I think I’m going to remove my LED.”

“What? The fuck you wanna do that for?” Hank looks perplexed, uncrossing his arms and coming to stand next to him. Connor looks at him through the mirror and finds himself lost for words again, so he trains back on his own face.

“This…,” Connor gestures to his spinning, yellow temple,” ...this thing serves as nothing but a cold reminder. I look at it and… and I see a machine. I was so cold, Hank. I hunted my own people because I refused to grant myself free will. It reminds me of Amanda. I… I don’t want to be that machine anymore, Hank. I want to be a person.”

When Connor looks back to Hank through the mirror, he still can’t read whatever it is he sees in his eyes. He turns and looks at Hank directly, and his expression isn’t any more clear. And then Hank’s gone, leaving Connor alone and perplexed. Connor calls out after him, seemingly stuck in his place at the sink, and he is meet with the crashing sounds of Hank rifling through the cabinets. Bewildered, Connor steps to look down the hallway, but is pushed back as Hank reenters the bathroom. He’s holding a letter opener.

“Hank, what-” Connor is interrupted by Hank shaking his head and his hands.

“Shut up and listen, kid,” Hank retorted, and Connor falls silent. 

“When I first met you, you were a goddamn headache. I didn’t like androids at the best of times, but having one with his nose always up in my shit drove me to constant fucking irritation. But, over time, you made me see the humanity in androids, even if you couldn’t see it yourself. Connor, you helped free your people, you helped the DPD, hell, you fucking helped me.  
So if this is what you want, Connor, then there’s no way in hell that I’m going to try and stop you, but at least let me help you.”

Connor didn’t have the words to say anything, so he just nodded. Hank gestured toward the sink, and Connor moved to lean back against it as Hank settles to his right. He feels a pressure on hit temple as hank presses the letter opener to the LED. He can feel as Hank wiggles it, working his way underneath the LED. He feels the pop as it dislodges from his head.

Connor looks down to see Hank holding it in his hand; it’s dark, no longer spiraling blue or yellow or red-- and Connor looks to the mirror.

He brushes his finger over his plain temple and he smiles, and this time it doesn’t feel wrong.

I feel like a person.


End file.
